


promise me a place

by rowansberry (amarowan)



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series), Fantasy High
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Fire as a metaphor, First Meetings, IDK what else to tell you, Tattoos, as in, i use way too much fire imagery, it's just a big rambly piece about being yourself and whirlwind dates and yearning, its just 10k of yearning lesbians interacting for the first time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28416054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarowan/pseuds/rowansberry
Summary: There is someone else in the library.Well. Library is only a half-truth. The Compass Points, is, by all definitions, a bookstore. Meant to be a venue where one can purchase books that intrigue them. But so few people come to purchase books that Ayda tends to think of it as her library.Semantics. There is someone in the library, between the shelf that contains books on friendship and the tall standing shelf that spins and squeaks and holds the popular divination books. She is short — shorter than Ayda — and her skin is bright red, her hair in a neat plait. Her clothes are different, more similar in aesthetic to the patrons of Garthy’s tattoo shop than her own library — a leather jacket covered in patches, torn fishnets, a red skirt that clashes most beautifully with her skin, a t-shirt with a faded logo.In her hand, a glowing cigarette.“You cannot smoke in the library,” Ayda says.The woman turns to look at Ayda. “Why not? You’re made of fire.”-or, in which fig and ayda meet in the streets of bastion city, and share a whirlwind night together.
Relationships: Ayda Aguefort/Figueroth Faeth
Comments: 24
Kudos: 50
Collections: Dimension 20 Big Bang





	promise me a place

**Author's Note:**

> beautiful companion art for this piece can be found [here](https://twitter.com/LizzidanArt/status/1344190280430460932?s=20)!

Fig has a routine, whenever they go on tour.

(It annoys Lola to no end. Fig can’t bring herself to give it more than a passing thought.)

She smokes a cigarette on the roof of the tour bus. Cloves, normally — sometimes she splurges, goes for the real thing. Nicotine. (When Gorgug gives her disapproving glances at the dancing ember held in her hand, she pretends not to notice. It’s easier that way. And Gorgug doesn’t press her to quit.) Fig never carries a lighter — she can produce flame, why would she ever need a lighter? 

There’s something poetic about how she carries the power to slowly rot her lungs in her. Fig doesn’t (can’t) think about it too deeply. 

In the dark of the night when they arrive in Bastion City, familiar constellations turned into a never-ending, thick, inky tapestry of black (and not even pitch black, the light pollution is too heavy for this black to be anything near true) Fig loses herself in the darkness and lets the embers and the flames dance between her fingers. The smoke is sweet. The city is not. 

She puts the cigarette out on the roof of the bus. (With her horns, her red skin, her tail, she used to put them out against her own legs. It never hurt that much anyways — she was made for the fire. Lola stopped her because it would be ‘bad for our image, you know, if they see our lead singer and bassist with burn marks all over her legs!’ Fig listened then, because at the very least, she cares about the band. She cares about its success.) Jumps down, hits the earth with a solid _thud_. The cigarette butt becomes part of the pavement below her, and the tour bus becomes nothing more than a fading background. 

Fig has always dealt in glamours, illusions — she weaves falsehoods the same way she weaves chords. Spins fiction the same way she writes lyrics. It’s convenient, when Lola’s voice and Gorgug’s incessant drumming on any available surface and the constant murmur of voices from their staff, their roadies gets to be too much — she slides into a different face, a different life, like a fish into water, and she swims free for a night. 

Tonight — tonight she gives herself dark, dark hair. Her own hair isn’t light, either — but she deepens it, makes it curl and poof and spring up in a way her pin-straight locks don’t. Shortens it, turns it into a choppy little bob. Heightens the bridge of her nose; shortens her pointed, elven ears; her horns disappear and her skin loses its cherry-red tint, the same colour that she’s oh-so-famous for. A flourish of her hand changes her clothes and another her makeup — and she isn’t Fig anymore.

Becoming another person — the more she thinks about it, the more Fig realizes it isn’t that different from performing. 

She takes traits she already has — stubborn, or flirty, or rage — and hooks them to an amp, broadcasting them so loudly until it’s all she can see, until it’s all that anyone else ever hears. The Fig she is on stage is just her times ten, her with all the punk attitude and anger and charm she can muster; and her current visage, “Sofie Bikes,” is stubborn and headstrong to the bitter end — more so than Fig could ever dream to be. 

The city sparkles with neon light as she walks through it, basking in the anonymity she’s granted when she’s someone that isn’t her. Fig enters the nearest bar without stopping to check the name, and has ordered a round of shots (three, all for herself) before she’s even sat down. 

There’s a man beside her, with stubble and a jacket that smells like sandalwood, nursing a glass of whiskey. He’s at least 40. Fig flirts with him anyways. (It’s easier to feel loved, in a real way, when she finds that attention for herself, wearing someone else’s face and someone else’s name. Fig ignores the nagging thought in the back of her head, telling her that she doesn’t _want_ to kiss this man, doesn’t _actually_ want to smile coyly and tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear like she knows some secret no one else does and touch his arm lightly before throwing her head back in a light, airy laugh. It’s easier this way. She knows this. She wants to, needs to be loved.) They share a kiss, and Fig hates the taste of whiskey, can’t escape how it lingers on her tongue when she pulls away. She tells the man she needs a smoke, and lets his eyes linger on her as she exits the bar, slipping into the shadows before pulling another face onto her and walking away. 

It’s a routine; it’s familiarity; it’s hitting up three more bars with three different faces before the alcohol kicks in, sending the neon lights of the city spinning just enough to make Fig feel like she’s somewhere, some _one_ else. Fig hates that she can only earn real love and attention when she isn’t herself — and yet, it’s all that she has. 

At some point, she walks down a street she doesn’t recognize, a few flickering neon signs the only light. _Golden Garden Tattoos,_ one shop promises, and Fig has been thinking about getting a tattoo soon, maybe, even though it’d be a PR nightmare for Lola — she’s a little past tipsy and approaching drunk, and she still feels impulsive — and she pockets the existence of the shop in her mind. She lights up a cigarette, the warm glow and feeling of the smoke as she breathes it in and releases it into the chill night air familiar, good, comfortable. (Gorgug’s voice fills her mind, _Those things will kill you, Fig,_ and her familiar rebuttal, _I’m going to live for hundreds of years anyways, what’s a few less_ , and their arguments always trailed off here. The life expectancy of a half-elf is only around 150 years, but she’s an archdevil. Has been for a few years. And their life expectancy? Near-immortal, at least from what her dad told her.

The life expectancy of a half-orc is 70.

They don’t like talking about it much.)

Next to the tattoo shop and its flickering sign is a small bookstore— _The Compass Points,_ a faded wooden sign tells her. It stands out, amidst the glimmering neon that dominates the rest of this street — Fig finds herself drawn to it, a hand against the glass as she peers in through the window and breathes out a cloud of smoke. The light inside is warm, dim — like candles, like a bonfire in the middle of the night, like the familiarity of a fire — and that, if not the piles and piles of books scattered around the store, or the sign in the door that reads “As long as this door is unlocked, _the Compass Points_ is open,” is what draws Fig in the most. A fire in a bookstore is just odd enough to make her push open the door, chimes sounding out in the still night air. 

Of all the things Fig has seen and made of fire, she never expected to see a pair of _wings_. 

She doesn’t catch sight of them until she’s made her way past the first twisting set of bookshelves, like a maze with a lot more tripping hazards — wings made of fire, casting warm, golden light and lengthy shadows throughout the room. These wings are attached to a woman who sits behind a counter, a book open on the wooden surface in front of her — her light only serves to accentuate her high, prominent cheekbones, startlingly bright eyes, that almost literally look like two burning embers, and swirling, twisting runes that decorate her arms. It takes away Fig’s breath, for a moment, how the fire seems to be such an intrinsic part of her, and how it only serves to make her more beautiful. (And dangerous. Somewhere in the back of her head, Fig laughs at how this whole room is just one huge fire hazard, and how the cigarette between her lips would have been a danger in any situation other than one where the bookstore is run by a creature that quite literally seems to be born of fire.)

Part of Fig wants to turn back to the door she just entered from, and leave without so much as a glance at the books strewn about every surface in this room. This — a dusty, almost antique bookstore, run by someone made of fire, who Fig can’t seem to tear her eyes from — is so far from everything she’s used to. (And what she’s used to is slamming back shots in dirty bars, is neon lights and days spent in the tour van and screaming until she can’t remember anything but the stage and calluses on her fingers from pressing down the strings of her guitar that’ll stay for as long as she’s alive.) And yet. 

Another part of Fig wants to stay. She wouldn’t be able to tell you why. 

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply, revelling in the way that her lungs fill with smoke, tipping her head up towards the ceiling as she exhales. What’s one night? What’s one broken routine? What’s one blissful set of hours spent somewhere other than dim bars with men that smell like smoke and whiskey and can never give Fig what she needs?

Would it hurt, to try something different? To be herself?

There is someone else in the library.

Well. Library is only a half-truth. The Compass Points _,_ is, by all definitions, a bookstore. Meant to be a venue where one can purchase books that intrigue them. But so few people come to purchase books that Ayda tends to think of it as her library. 

Semantics. There is someone in the library, between the shelf that contains books on friendship and the tall standing shelf that spins and squeaks and holds the popular divination books. She is short — shorter than Ayda — and her skin is bright red, her hair in a neat plait. Her clothes are different, more similar in aesthetic to the patrons of Garthy’s tattoo shop than her own library — a leather jacket covered in patches, torn fishnets, a red skirt that clashes most beautifully with her skin, a t-shirt with a faded logo. 

In her hand, a glowing cigarette. 

“You cannot smoke in the library,” Ayda says. 

The woman turns to look at Ayda. “Why not? You’re made of fire.”

And she is not wrong, Ayda concedes. But she is careful— she’s meticulously measured the distances between every bookshelf, made sure that she would not bump against them even if she forgot to hold her wings tight to her body, created a twisting maze of shelves that allowed her safe passage without damage. And Ayda cannot guarantee that this woman will show the same amount of safety, of preciseness. 

“I am made of fire, yes. But I live here. You are a visitor. And you currently hold what could be the end of the Compass Points in your hand.”

The woman takes another drag of the cigarette, exhaling ribbons of smoke as she presses the still-burning end into her thigh, slipping it into her pocket, now an ashy gray instead of glowing sunset embers. Ayda watches as she puts a hand on the rack of divination books, gives it a spin, and the woman winces as it emits a harsh squeal. “Divination?”

“Is it not a wise choice for a divination wizard to have within her bookstore?” 

The woman lets out a laugh, hand running down the spine of a book — _On the Art of Divination_ by Eleminthindriel — as she makes her way through the maze of shelves and toward the counter behind which Ayda sits. (An authentic first edition copy, from the first Elven Oracle herself. This copy is not for sale — the later, fifth and seventh and thirteenth editions are. Ayda keeps this version on display to draw attention, but only herself and Adaine are allowed to open it. She wonders why she doesn’t care as much that the book is being touched by someone that is a stranger, when normally every grubby finger or stray hit against the book feels like a knife stabbing into her own skin.) “Got any books about music?”

Ayda gestures to a small shelf towards the back of the store. “Not much, but yes.” Something about this woman feels familiar to her, but she can’t figure out why. She makes a mental note to check her journals once she closes. 

She glances at the books briefly before turning her gaze towards Ayda. Her eyes catch on the nametag on Ayda’s sweater, metal holding plastic holding thick, cream-coloured wool wrapped into interlocking loops that now cover her figure. “So you’re Ayda, huh?”

“Yes. And you are?” Her name rolls nicely off this strange woman’s tongue. Like it belongs there, like it was sitting on the tip of her tongue like a melting sugar cube, just waiting to roll off.

“Fig- Figueroth,” she says. Something flashes across her face, but Ayda cannot identify it before it disappears, leaving the same neutral and amicable expression behind. 

“You hesitated,” Ayda notes. “Is Figueroth not your name?”

“No— I mean, yes, Figueroth is my name,” she says, and the words that flowed so smoothly before are tripping over themselves, spilling out like water from too-fast rapids, “I— yeah. I’m Figueroth. It’s nice to meet you, Ayda.”

“Likewise.” 

Figueroth pretends to look at one of the books on the shelf. Ayda knows she is not reading a single word on its back cover. 

“Do you intend to purchase a book?”

She turns back to Ayda, slightly startled, eyes widening (and they are so pretty, shining like two stars, two gems inlaid in the prettiest face). “Uh. I didn’t intend to when I walked in?”

“Then why did you enter the Compass Points?”

A sharp flare of light blooms in her eyes, another expression that Ayda cannot interpret quickly flashing across her face. “It felt right.” She pulls a small box out of her pocket, pulling out a cigarette — a protest is on the tip of Ayda’s tongue — but she doesn’t light it, merely puts it between her lips. “The Compass Points, huh? Maybe I was feeling a little lost. Maybe I needed a compass.”

“We don’t sell compasses here—”

“Oh, I meant. Figuratively.” She smiles around the cigarette, but it has a bitter tinge to it. “Although, I might be literally lost as well, now.”

Ayda likes this woman. Figueroth. (The name rolls around so easily on her tongue; she wants to say it aloud, she’s sure it’ll sound like music.) “What were you looking for, before you got lost?”

The smile fades from Figueroth’s face. “I wish I knew.”

“Perhaps… I must close the Compass Points soon,” Ayda says, and she does. Normally she closes at 12 AM. She’s glad she didn’t close up just yet. “I cannot let you stay here the whole night.”

There is a silence, a tension hanging in the air. It breaks when Figueroth holds her hand out, lips pulling into a grin that reveals two sharp, prominent canines. “What d’you say we go on a little adventure?”

Ayda doesn’t even think before taking her hand. 

“When you said ‘adventure,’ what exactly did you imagine that to entail?”

Ayda is fascinated with Figueroth. 

Figueroth is so different from anything Ayda’s seen — granted, she doesn’t go many places other than to visit Garthy and Adaine and more frequently, Riz, but Figueroth is still different even from those that frequent Garthy’s tattoo shop. She feels like fire — and Ayda is not unfamiliar with fire, Ayda has always been a part of fire and fire a part of her, so it is strange that Figueroth feels different when fire feels like home. And yet —

Even in the dark of the night, she somehow glows brighter. They’re standing outside _The Compass Points_ , and Ayda has just finished locking up for the night, and their faces are painted in warm golds from Ayda’s wings and cool neon from the sign above Garthy’s store — _Golden Garden Tattoos_.

“Well,” Figueroth says, and Ayda is fascinated with her voice, how it rasps and resonates like a deep strum of a bass guitar, “I’m not from Bastion City, and I’m tired of always going to the same three tourist spots, so — why don’t you give me a tour of Bastion City?”

Ayda blinks. “You just said that you’re tired of going to the same three spots.”

“Show me _your_ Bastion City.” In the dancing neon lights of the small street that Ayda calls home, Figueroth looks like a vision of beauty, red skin dappled in green and violet and gold, a kaleidoscope of colour that entrances Ayda. She smiles, and Ayda notices that Figueroth’s canines are more prominent than her own, a little sharper and larger and not unlike fangs, and that fascinates her too. “Show me your favourite spots in this city. I want to learn about it and— ” And Figueroth _looks_ at Ayda, looks at her in a way that makes her feel seen from the tips of her talons to the fiery wisps of her hair to the burning feathers at the ends of her wings, “ — and about you.”

Ayda thinks for a bit — her favourite place in Bastion City is the _Compass Points_ , but Figueroth had found her there, and she’d closed it for the night, so it made no sense to return when they were mere metres away. And her second favourite place—

“Okay,” she says. “Okay. I can give you a tour of my Bastion City.” Ayda extends a hand to Figueroth — so she doesn’t get lost, is her reasoning — and cannot help the smile that starts to spread across her face when Figueroth takes it, marvelling quietly at the warmth of Figueroth’s hand in hers, and how her fingertips are rough with callouses, and how their hands slot together quite nicely. 

They walk — the place Ayda is taking them is not far, a few blocks at most — and there is a slight chill in the air, the way there always is as the summer begins to draw to its bittersweet end, the promise of autumn whispering through the streets. Her wings radiate a warmth that keeps the bite of the wind away — sometimes it is rather convenient, to be made of fire. (Ayda half-expects Figueorth to attempt to move away, put some distance between them, if only because Ayda understands how sometimes standing too close to her is about as comfortable as standing mere inches from a bonfire, but she shows no discomfort, and Ayda remembers how she put out a cigarette against her leg earlier with no signs of pain.) Figueroth’s hand does not leave hers, and she makes no attempts to break this connection, and they walk through the darkened streets of Bastion City, a warm golden glow surrounding them. 

A neon sign beams down at them as they approach — _Short Rest_ , it flashes at them — and the wash of white and blue light is comforting and familiar on Ayda’s shoulders. “My favourite place in Bastion City,” Ayda says, voice cutting through the still silence of the night (but really, is the city ever still? Is it ever silent?) “is this coffee shop. The _Short Rest_. My friend Adaine works here in the day, and in the night—” she pushes open the door, catching sight of a slight green figure behind the counter, “ — Riz does.”

Ayda knows from how often Adaine complains about it that Riz keeps a portable clue board beneath one of the counters, and from how he pops up just behind the register, Ayda can deduce that he must have been working on a case. “Don’t tell Adaine,” Riz says, a pair of scissors in one hand and a ball of red yarn in the other. “She threw out the last one because I forgot to hide it and I lost so much progress.”

“I won’t,” Ayda promises, because she does enjoy when Riz shows her the clueboards, usually when they’re on their seventh cup of coffee (individually, not collectively) and he gets a fire in his eyes she so rarely sees elsewhere. “Can I get the usual? And whatever Figueroth would like?”

“Caramel macchiato,” Figueroth says, and Riz appears to do a double-take, but nods and taps their order into the register, reminding Ayda for the nth time that ‘no, you _don’t_ need to pay, you’ve done so much for us, free coffee is literally the least I can do, plus Adaine’s not here to tell me I can’t keep doing this,’ before stepping to the side to prepare their drinks. 

The cafe is deserted — it usually is, at this point of the night, and despite the _Short Rest_ ’s 24-hour allure, not many people tend to want coffee in the earliest hours of the morning, so early you could argue for calling it night. (The exception is always finals season — Ayda has become much accustomed to the sight of tired students from one of the local universities, wearing every combination of clothes known to man, heavy bags under their eyes. Adaine convinced the manager last year to give a student discount for any espresso or black coffee during finals week, and the _Short Rest_ had more business than ever before.) There’s nothing stopping Ayda from choosing any table in the cafe — but the table in the back corner, surrounded by windows on both sides and bathing her in moonlight as if she were outside, has always been her table. 

(It shouldn’t feel so intimate, as though she’s baring a part of her soul she so rarely shows to others, to invite Figueroth to her table, to watch as the moonlight covers their hands, still intertwined, in dappled silver. And yet it does, and Ayda feels vulnerable in a way that she can only attempt to describe, grasping at words that slip between her fingers like fine grains of sand, but despite the feeling of being open and seen in a way no other has before, she is not scared.)

They talk— and they talk, and they talk, and Riz comes by with the drinks and they talk, and it feels like they spend hours listening to each other and it feels like mere seconds, they are suspended in time the way stars hang in the night sky. Ayda doesn’t think she’s ever felt closer to anyone, aside from _maybe_ Adaine — she doesn’t share much about herself, even to the few people she would consider friends. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating, like every first time she’s tried to fly — the rush of the wind against her face, the combined fear and excitement in her chest, the adrenaline that pulses through with every rushing heartbeat — Ayda’s known Figueroth for barely an hour, and yet something about her makes Ayda trust her implicitly, makes her want to know every facet of Figueroth’s glimmering multitudes. 

“Can you see the stars, out here in the city?”

Ayda blinks, almost owlishly — the comparison is almost too easy to make, what with the rounded glasses that perch across the bridge of her nose and the fiery wings sprouting from her back — before answering. “See them? Of course, they are always there. Unless the clouds cover them, obviously.”

Fig grins, gripping Ayda’s hand tighter in her own — they’re still at the cafe, hands still intertwined, and she doesn’t want to be the first to let go — “No, I mean — out in Elmville, where I’m from, it’s this town a few hours out, the stars are always clear at night, even clearer if you’re willing to drive half an hour down the highway,” Fig says, and she can remember so clearly, all the nights spend giggling, half-drunk with Gorgug in the back of his van, writing songs that barely make sense around a nearly burned down campfire, staring up at the stars and feeling so endlessly small in the midst of all the space and light surrounding them. “But this is a city, so — are the stars as clear? Can you see them at all?”

“Some of them, yes,” Ayda replies, “the brightest ones. But so many more are drowned out by the light that comes from the city.” (There’s something almost ironic in that, Fig thinks, that the natural beauty of the stars is lost to the artificial light of the city. If she was a little more lucid, maybe she’d write something about it — but then again, her songs are rarely poetic enough for something like the stars. Burning out quickly, going out with a bang, this is what she’s used to. This is what she knows.) Ayda looks out the window, the silvery light of the moon catching in the lenses of her glasses and reflecting back up at the sky. “When I was younger — my guardian, Garthy, they were born on Leviathan, the floating pirate city. It isn’t anywhere near as modern as Bastion City is. And I can remember the stars being so clear every night. I think I memorized half the star charts in the library before we moved.” She goes silent for a bit, staring up at the sky. Fig can’t help but follow her gaze, but she couldn’t figure out what Ayda was looking at — looking _for_. “I miss being able to see them.”

“Let’s go stargazing,” Fig says, the words leaving her mouth before she can even stop them. Something about — something about the night, about Ayda encircled with warm light, about the longing in Ayda’s eyes for stars that are only a distant memory, about how every little piece of her feels loose and undone, inhibitions as far gone as her cares and her worries, is driving Fig tonight. She started the night wanting to feel free — and she sure as hell does now. “Teach me the constellations — the real ones, not the ones I’d make up with a friend because we thought it was funny. I want to—” she stops herself, _I want to stargaze with you_. 

“Okay,” Ayda says, and Fig once again finds herself marvelling at how open Ayda is. Not every stranger would take her on an impromptu tour of their own Bastion City, not every stranger would have let her into their store so long after closing, not every stranger would take her to their favourite coffee shop and agree to stargaze without so much as a hint of protest. Fig hasn’t met anyone quite like Ayda and loves her all the more for it. “There’s a park nearby that has a large clearing, I think it would be perfect.”

Fig stands up from the table they’ve been sitting at for the past — hell, Fig doesn’t know, hasn’t noticed or cared that time’s been passing, and she lets go of Ayda’s hand, but as soon as they’ve made it out of the cafe (Ayda waves goodbye to Riz, who gives them both a fang-filled grin and a wave of his hand as he chugs another espresso shot and continues to scribble on his clueboard as they leave) Ayda reaches out, entwining their fingers once again, and Fig feels something in her chest burn brighter. 

(It shouldn’t make her feel so warm and loved, this simple gesture. But it does, and Fig lets the warmth run through her and push against the biting chill of the night air.)

It’s not a long walk to the park, a few blocks at most. A few trees frame a long path that stretches into a large clearing, just like Ayda said, the clearing itself surrounded by a few trees, leaves shaking a soft melody into the wind. Fig flops down into the grass at the soonest opportunity, letting out a soft breath as the wideness of the sky and the endlessness of everything that stretches above her hits. 

(“D’you ever wonder,” she says, words slurring from the alcohol that’s entered her bloodstream slowly over the course of the night, “why we all try so hard to be important, when everythin’ — look, there’s a whole universe out there, Gorgug, and we’re just here in this shitty little town, what do we matter to the stars?”

Gorgug doesn’t have an answer for her for a long while, and when he does speak all that he tells her is, “What do the stars matter to us?”

Fig still hasn’t fully figured out what he meant by that, if he meant anything by it at all.)

Ayda sits carefully on the grass, turning to her side to face Fig before lying all the way down. “Why—” Fig starts, and then, “Oh. Your wings.”

“I don’t want to start a fire, yes,” Ayda says. Fig lets herself imagine it briefly, the park that they just made their way through engulfed in flame, and shudders quietly. A fire would not be good here.

“Is it— hard?” she asks, because she can’t think of a better way to ask it — it’s late, and she’s had maybe one drink too many and a cup of coffee on top of that. “To get around normally when your wings are made of fire?”

Ayda thinks about that one for a bit, eyes trained on Fig the whole time — they’re only inches apart, her lips look so soft, Fig definitely isn’t thinking about what would happen if she pushed forward just a few inches — “No — it’s almost instinctual, now, to check around me to make sure I won’t damage anything. When I was younger, more forgetful, it was perhaps a little less easy. But my wings are a part of me — I don’t think I’d ever say it’s hard to have them.” She tips her head to the side, fiery eyes reflecting the sky full of stars ahead. “Besides, it’s nice to be able to fly.”

Fig lets out a hum of agreement, stretching her arms up above her head before folding her hands under her head, letting them splay out to either side. “Flying would be awesome.” She stares up at the sky — out into the abyss — for a little, and Ayda was right, the stars aren’t as clear in the city. “Do you know any constellations?”

If expressions had colour, the pure joy Ayda showed at the mention of constellations would give off the brightest yellow light Fig had ever seen. It’s a little awkward, the way Ayda has to curl carefully against Fig’s side to point her arm in the right direction, connecting stars like a tracing game, voice whispering a melody in Fig’s ear as she describes the constellation, the story behind its name and its place in the endless wideness of the sky, but Fig doesn’t mind, and she can tell Ayda doesn’t either. The closeness is unfamiliar, but not unwelcome. They go on like this for what feels like hours — and Fig hardly notices or cares. It’s pleasing, satisfying, brings back that same soft warmth in her chest that she still can’t put a name to. 

“This one,” Ayda says, guiding Fig’s hand to the far left of her field of view, tracing out a quick pattern, “is commonly called the Lodestone, an homage to the myth of the lovers’ lodestone. I think it’s my favourite constellation.”

“What’s the myth about?”

“The lodestone,” Ayda starts, and something has shifted in her tone but Fig is too distracted by the story and the swirl of thoughts in her head to figure out exactly how, “was a gift given between two lovers — the giver promised his lover that no matter where in the world they ended up, he’d be able to find him with that lodestone.” Fig let her eyes shut, let Ayda’s words flow around her like a melody that slipped between her ears and into every crevice of her brain. Her voice was deep but smooth, soothing, so nice to listen to. “They were from different city-states, and a war between their two kingdoms separated them for many, many years. But the lover never gave up on the person that gave him the lodestone — he followed it dutifully, biding his time to keep safe while slowly travelling to where he knew his lover to be.”

Her voice takes on a more explanatory, scholarly, tone — it’s no less wonderful than it’s been all the times before. “In some versions of the myth — parts were lost due to translation over the years, from archaic versions of the languages to new, and modern scholars haven’t been able to agree on one translation — he finds the one who gave him the lodestone; in others, it leads him to a gravestone, and he learns that his lover died in the same war that split them apart.”

Fig could listen to Ayda talk for hours. 

“I can see why it’s your favourite,” Fig says, shifting their hands so it was no longer Ayda guiding hers, but instead fingers entwined again, letting it drop between them as she turned on her side to face Ayda, pupils flickering with soft light like embers in a burning-down fire. “I like the happy ending better, I think. Tragic endings make for good art, but it always makes me sad.”

“I agree.” Ayda sits up slowly, waits for Fig to follow her, until they’re facing each other and Fig is staring into Ayda’s eyes with a backdrop of stars, stars that she can now say she knows and understands a little better. The glasses that frame Ayda’s eyes have a chain that loops around her neck, each end connecting to the arms of the glasses at the front, then hanging down again with small star charms that dangle just above her collar; Fig understands these cute charms now in a way she previously didn’t, and would not have if she hadn’t stepped into the bookstore all those hours ago. “I like the idea of love that is powerful enough to overcome the odds, as unrealistic as it might be.”

Fig watches as a small, bright feather — it somehow is illuminated with the light of flames, and is somehow solid enough that she can still see its every edge — fall from the edge of Ayda’s wing, landing on the grass below with a small puff of smoke. “Your feather,” Fig says, and Ayda turns, picking it up quickly and leaving nothing but a small, singed patch of grass behind. “They’re really pretty — I’ve never seen anything like them before, and I’ve been to hell, there’s a lot of fiery shit there.”

“Having a phoenix for a mother does give you a few unique qualities,” Ayda says by way of agreement, twisting the feather around in her hand. Despite how it so easily left the blades of grass blackened and browned, and the clearly firelike glow it emanates, Ayda handles it with no signs of outward distress. Fig wonders if that’s something they have in common. “Would you like to— If I were to offer you this feather, as a reminder of tonight, would you accept?”

Ayda offers the feather, hesitantly, cupped in the palm of her hand, and Fig feels the same way she did when she first crossed through the gateway to hell; warm and tingling from the soles of her shoes to the pointed tips of her ears, and as though a layer of herself has been peeled back to reveal something a little less pretty, but a little more true, a little more real. The same pool she fell into at the cafe, underwater with waves and ripples shifting across her field of vision, everything simultaneously muffled and sharpened. This — the feather, Ayda’s hands held out in front of her, the stars above them, the caffeine and the alcohol that’s ricocheting through her veins, every word that’s been uttered into the space between them — it all feels so _real_ , so _genuine_ , something Fig doesn’t think she’s been able to identify in years. She’s a performer, she’s a bard that works with glamours and charms and feels more comfortable in a disguise than she does in her own skin, sometimes — Fig doesn’t do _real_. None of what her fans see on the stage is actually her — sure, it’s got parts of her, but that’s it. Parts. Never the full Fig Faeth. Never anything more than what she carefully curates for everyone to see. 

Fig thinks that tonight is the first time in a long, long time, where she can say she’s been real in front of someone other than Gorgug. The thought scares her a little, but it excites her all the same.

With a hand trembling softly more from nerves than the biting night air, Fig takes the feather, marvelling quietly at the soft heat that emanates from it, the warm golden glow. “Thank you,” she says, quietly because anything above a murmur would feel too loud for a moment this intimate, an expression she can’t quite read but one she hopes is reflecting the same trust and warmth that she feels on Ayda’s face. 

She wants to — keep it on her, somewhere she’ll never lose it or forget about it, this feather is _important_ (she wouldn’t be able to tell you why she feels so strongly about it). Fig digs around in her pockets for a bit and comes up with some thin wire — probably for her earrings, since they break so often and she can just use _produce flame_ to solder any snapped wires back together. Ayda looks on intently as Fig takes the wire in one hand and the feather in the other, carefully twisting the wire around the base of the feather so it’s secure before snapping off the wire at one end and shaping it into something resembling an earring. She unclips one of the earrings she’s already wearing, carefully putting on the new feather — the tip of the feather brushes against her shoulder, and the heat it lets off is comforting. 

Fig stretches out a hesitant hand, letting the earring she just removed from her own ear rest in her palm. “Would you— want this earring? A trade for the feather.” It’s so impulsive, but the rest of the night has been just as bad — Fig hopes that Ayda won’t turn her down. 

“I don’t have my ears pierced,” Ayda tells her, and Fig can’t help but be a little shocked with that one, letting out a soft laugh of disbelief. 

“Really?” Ayda nods, and Fig checks, letting out another laugh when she sees it to be true. “You’d think that with the amount of runes you have tattooed on you, you’d have at least _one_ piercing, but I guess not.”

“I never found a reason to wear earrings before,” Ayda says. “The runes at least hold some significance. But earrings are just — aesthetic.” Despite what she just said, Ayda takes the earring from Fig’s hand, examining it under the silver moonlight and the golden glow from her wings. “This one has significance, though. I would wear it.” 

Fig can’t help the smile that spreads across her face at those words. “Is there somewhere we could get your ears pierced this late? Somewhere that isn’t closed?”

Ayda returns Fig’s smile. “I know a place.”

_Golden Gardens Tattoos_ is a small tattoo shop, dimly lit and filled with a soft haze of smoke that tastes like cinnamon and sugar. There’s a half-orc sitting behind the counter, leaning back with their legs propped up, that seems to be the origin of the smoke. Their eyes light up when they see Ayda, and they swing their legs off the counter in one smooth motion, coming around to embrace her with a smile on their face. “Ayda, lovey — you’ve been out?” Their voice has an accent to it that Fig can’t place, but it’s warm and welcoming and sounds like liquid gold, and it sets her at ease. 

“I’ve been giving Figueroth a tour,” Ayda says. “Can you pierce my ears?”

The half-orc lets out a laugh, quirking an eyebrow. “I mean, of course, but — any reason for the request?” 

Ayda holds up the earring Fig handed to her — it isn’t even anything particularly flashy or exciting, just a small black ring of metal with a clasp at one end — and says, “I would like to be able to wear this properly. Does your offer of piercings and tattoos for free still stand, Garthy?” 

“Of course, why would I ever say no?”

Fig isn’t really sure what to do with herself as Garthy bustles around the room gathering supplies and directing Ayda to sit on one of the chairs in the partitioned rooms — sure, this was kinda her idea, but that doesn’t mean she thought through exactly what would happen when they got here! 

There’s a second chair in the small section of the room Ayda’s been directed into, and Garthy notices Fig hovering awkwardly around the main desk, giving her a soft smile before gesturing towards the chair. “If you aren’t squeamish, there’s nothing stopping you from waiting there,” Garthy says. 

“I— yeah, thanks.” 

Ayda smiles when Fig takes a seat next to her, fiddling quietly with the earring still held carefully between her fingers. “Did it hurt?” she asks, and Fig looks away from where she’d been following the movement of her earring in Ayda’s hands, meeting her glowing eyes. “When you got your ears pierced?” 

“Not really,” Fig replies, because it was true. “Sorta like getting your yearly flu shot. A sharp prick, a little bit of an ache, and then it’s fine and done.”

Garthy moves around the shop for a few minutes more, humming quietly to themself and filling the room with a little noise, a little warmth, before moving into the small section they’re in, hands full of various materials and tools.

“Now, I can’t pierce your ear with the earring you’ve got there,” Garthy says, hands performing an elaborate dance with the supplies laid out on the table in front of them, preparing and shifting things around and cleaning, “but you should be able to swap it in after a week or so depending on how it heals. Actually—” and they pause, hands stilling as they turn to regard Ayda, “you’ve got some sort of boosted regeneration and healing, don’t you?” 

Ayda nods, and they continue, “Then you should be fine to switch it out by tomorrow. Come to me first before you do anything, though — it wouldn’t do to have it get infected or heal up wrong.”

Garthy takes out a slim needle, some alcohol wipes, and a small metal stud earring. Fig doesn’t pay much attention to what Garthy’s doing — she’s been through this process a few times now, the piercings on her own ears only accumulating as the years go on — and instead turns her gaze to Ayda. She isn’t sure what to say — what there is to say that hasn’t already been said — so she waits. Sits quietly as Ayda continues to fiddle with the earring held between her fingers. 

“I am — glad I will be able to wear this earring sooner rather than later,” Ayda says, not meeting Fig’s gaze. It doesn’t feel malicious — Fig knows it’s likely Ayda is aware of how Fig’s focus is trained on her rather than the methodical motions of Garthy in front of them, but there’s something so intensely vulnerable about true eye contact. It can be a lot, and Fig doesn’t resent her in any way for not meeting her eyes here. “It means a lot to me, now.”

“We’ll be matching.” Fig reaches up to touch the other earring clipped onto her own ear, the twin of the piece of jewelry in Ayda’s hands. It’s one of the simpler pieces she owns — thick rings of dark metal, a gift from Gorgug on her 18th birthday. She’s worn them nearly every day since receiving them. “Even if I’m — out of the city, or elsewhere in Spyre, we’ll have these earrings to connect us.” 

“I would remember you with or without the earring memento, Figueroth,” Ayda says, and she looks up now, eyes meeting Fig’s, and the fire that burns in her irises feels infinitely more gentle, like the soft golden glow of embers, “but I am glad that this night will exist in more than just my own memory.”

“I’m ready when you are, Ayda,” Garthy interjects gently. She nods, and Garthy comes to stand on the other side of Ayda. “The more you relax, the easier this will be.”

Ayda reaches over to Fig, intertwining their fingers together as Garthy counts down, the needle held deftly between their fingers. She breathes out slowly, gripping Fig’s fingers tight in her own as the needle pierces through the soft lobe of her ear. Garthy pushes the temporary earring through the newly made hole, clipping the backing in gently and carefully cleaning around the opening. 

“It looks good,” Fig tells her when Garthy steps away to dispose of the used materials, and Ayda gives her a soft smile. 

“Really?” 

“Really.”

Fig isn’t drunk anymore — she knows she isn’t, it’s been at least a few hours since she was at that bar, and she had an entire coffee at some point between now and then — but all the same she feels inebriated, loose and uninhibited and like there’s a golden filter on the entire world in front of her, a soft warmth bubbling gently in her chest. “I want to get a tattoo,” she breathes out, and an incredulous grin works its way across Garthy’s face in the same beat that Ayda looks towards her with those wide, open eyes. (It isn’t even that Ayda’s easy to read — it’s just that she is so incredibly clear and truthful about what she’s thinking and what she wants, and it’s so far from anything Fig can say she’s ever known and it draws her in like moth to flame.) 

She — she wants something. Something real, something concrete, something she can look at months from now and remember this — this golden, perfect fucking night, away from everything expected of her and everything she knows and into the arms of someone that is _real_ , this sleepless night of experiences that she knows have already changed her, just a little, (maybe more than a little) — Fig needs something to remember tonight by, and they’re already at a tattoo parlor, and what’s stopping her? 

“I want to get a tattoo,” she repeats, louder and more sure. “Is that— can I—”

Garthy gives her that same easy smile. “Let me get my supplies.” 

“I would like a tattoo as well,” Ayda says. “Do you still have the same ink you used for my runes?”

“Maybe in the back,” Garthy says. “Give me a second to get my sketchbook and check, and we can work something out.” They walk away, unlocking a small door in the back corner before slipping behind it, leaving just Fig and Ayda alone in the room.

“Is Garthy the one who tattooed your other runes on?” Fig asks, because, well, she’s gotta fill the silence somehow, and it seems a fitting topic. It doesn’t feel forced, at least, and a part of her wonders why things just seem to be — easier, genuine, when she’s with Ayda. “I thought they were just intricate designs, but if they’re _runes_ that’s even cooler.” 

Ayda looks down, studying her own arms for a moment — and Fig realizes it was probably intentional, the sheer sleeves on her button-up shirt that let the soft glow of her tattooed runes seep through — before speaking. “They’re a combination of magical runes and ones with meaning — Garthy is my guardian, and they taught me how to read Zajiri runes when I was younger, and I’ve combined some of those with runes from my studies as a wizard. Garthy was the one to tattoo all of them on, though I helped with a lot of the design.” 

“That’s the coolest thing I’ve fuckin’ heard,” Fig says, because it _is_ , “and I get to make music for a living, which is a pretty hard thing to beat.” She knows they’ve already spent hours and hours talking, but if they had more time she wants to trace her fingers along every spiral and swirl of the glowing runes, asking Ayda to explain each and every one as she listens raptly. And she’d listen, and she’d remember. “Do you think — if we have time later, that is — you could tell me a bit about the runes? And— and what they mean, and why you got them, and shit?” 

Ayda doesn’t answer, and Fig worries she’s done something wrong, shifting her gaze from the fiery runes on Ayda’s arms to her equally bright, glowing eyes. “Ayda?”

“You are the first person that has ever asked me to explain my tattoos,” Ayda says, and something in how she says it feels just — so open and so intimate and so vulnerable, and Fig is once again in awe of how different this night has been from what she expected. 

She opens her mouth to respond, but Garthy is back with arms full of various supplies, and something in Fig tells her to not reply just yet, even as the words threaten to spill off the tip of her tongue. To wait, until it’s just them again. 

Garthy pulls out a thick, worn sketchbook — even at a glance Fig can tell it’s seen a lot of use, about half the pages in it covered in some sort of ink or graphite as they flip through. Art was never something Fig could be interested in — she lacked the patience, mostly, the dedication to sit and try to spin something beautiful out of nothing but a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. It was always easier for her, to create images out of words and melodies instead.

“What design are you thinking?” Garthy asks, turning to Fig first, and she hesitates — she wasn’t sure they’d get this far, but here they are. Here she is, getting a tattoo at — hell, probably close to four in the morning, with a girl she met earlier today at a tattoo parlor next to a bookstore in a part of Bastion City she’s never been to. But the sentiment still stands — she wants something that’ll remind her of all the memories they made today.

“Something with a heart maybe?” Fig says, and she’s glad that her skin is already red, so the heat in her cheeks doesn’t give away anything, any indication that she’s nervous, or flustered, or anything in between. “And fire.”

“Fire, huh?” Garthy says, and Fig can taste the defensive rebuttals rising on the tip of her tongue, even if there’s nothing in Garthy’s tone or expression to indicate they’re implying anything about her and Ayda. 

“Yeah, I’m _kinda_ an archdevil of hell,” Fig says, forcing her tone to even out and be confident, (because it’s true, technically, even if it isn’t exactly why Fig wanted her tattoo to involve fire,) not even daring to glance over at Ayda. “Fire’s my thing!” 

(She’s lying, she knows this — fire isn’t just _her_ thing now, when Ayda’s not just involved with fire, but made of the very same flickering light and gentle heat Fig loves claiming as hers. Her heart is surrounded with the same flames and warmth that Ayda fills every room with, and she can’t think of any better way to remember the experiences of tonight, the affection blooming and swelling in her chest.)

Garthy doesn’t say anything more, just spins the pencil in their hand and begins sketching, a simple design of a heart with a patterned border, fire spilling out of the top of the heart and into full, blossoming flames. Fig’s never been good at visual art — music has always been more her style, but she can always appreciate good artistry, no matter the medium. And there’s no denying it, Garthy is skilled. Maybe she’s just getting ahead of herself, but she’s excited to see how the tattoo turns out. 

“Does this match what you were picturing?” Garthy asks, angling the sketchbook towards her, and Fig can only nod — it’s perfect. Something she’ll enjoy seeing on herself, memories encapsulated in a single design, a constant reminder of everything that’s happened tonight that she doesn’t want to ever forget. 

(It’s a little sappy, a little overdone, but Fig feels changed by the night she spent in Ayda’s company. So sue her.)

“I’d suggest going to the bathroom before we start the tattoo,” Garthy says, studying the sketch they filled in with rough blocks of colour, “especially if we want this level of detail and shading. It’ll give me a chance to get Ayda’s design set up, too.” They look towards Ayda, and there’s something unspoken in their gaze that Fig can’t quite decipher, but she gets the idea and follows Garthy’s directions to the bathroom in the back corner of the tattoo parlor.

(“What design do you want?” Garthy asks. Ayda doesn’t even give a verbal answer, just takes the pencil from their hand and begins sketching — she knows Garthy will understand when they see it.

Two runes, one more angular and square, and the other more swirling and delicate, surrounded by small decorative designs. Garthy can’t help but smile when they see exactly what Ayda’s drawn — it mirrors the meaning Figuroth asked for almost perfectly. The Zajiri rune for F — for fire — and the rune for love. Nothing more needs to be said — Garthy wouldn’t step into their privacy, anyways, but they understand. They had an inkling of it, when Ayda walked in at this hour with a girl they’ve never seen before, but this serves to confirm their every suspicion. 

And maybe it’s too soon to say, but they’re glad.)

Fig returns just as Ayda hands the pencil back to Garthy, flopping back into her chair with a huff of breath. She peers over at the open sketchbook, letting out a little coo of excitement and delight at the design. “Oh, that’ll look so nice within the rest of the runes you have — will you tell me what that one means, too?” 

If a soft blush makes its way across Ayda’s face, Fig is oblivious. “Maybe, one day. It will take a long time, to explain each one. What it means, and what it does.”

“I’ll have to come back, then. To hear about your runes.” 

“I’ll be waiting.”

  
  


The night air is cool on Fig’s skin when she finally exits _The Golden Gardens_ — the sun is rising as the door closes behind Ayda, a gentle ache blooming from Fig’s shoulder, where her newly-inked and bandaged tattoo sits on her arm. (It turned out even better than she had hoped, Garthy working some sort of magic with the inks and the needles to create a beautiful heart wreathed in fire that will be a part of her for as long as she lives. Fig honestly isn’t sure why she hasn’t gotten a proper tattoo before today — it’s permanence in an ever-changing world, it’s memories that exist outside of her own mind.) If she turns to look down this small street she walked down hours ago — it feels so much longer than just hours — she can see the sun rising in the distance, inky black dotted with silver shifting to oranges and pinks and blues. It feels like an eternity has passed, an entire era carved out into a new category within her mind, and it feels like everything has sped by in a whirlwind rush of drinks and coffee and words spilling from smiling lips and stars and constellations and the dim haze of the tattoo shop. 

“Thank you.” 

It feels at first like she’s put too much weight in these words, this gratitude, when on the surface all Ayda really did was give her a short tour, show her a coffee shop and a park and some stars, take her to get a tattoo. But it meant so, so much more, and Fig hopes that Ayda feels that too. 

“You’re thanking me? For what?” 

Fig hesitates. “For — tonight.” She doesn’t think there’s a way, not really, to explain everything that this night has given her, every way it’s changed her and set her alight in new ways, new threads that have begun to unravel. “For everything.” 

Ayda smiles softly. “Then — thank you as well, Figueroth. For everything.” It feels like they’re spinning in a limbo, neither wanting to say what they both clearly understand — the night is ending, the sun is rising, and they’ll have to say goodbye. To end the spell this night seems to have cast on them. And — fear, maybe. That they’ll forget. That the night that seems to exist only in memory and matching tattoos and swapped earrings will fade out of existence and into a fog of oblivion that neither of them want it to. Ayda, says it, though. What Fig is too scared to say. What she’s worried will open the door for this all to become nothing more than memory. “Goodbye, then.”

Fig reaches out to hold Ayda’s hand, swinging it gently between them as the sun continues to rise. “Just for now — you still owe me the story of those runes.”

“So you’ll be back?” 

The sun peaks over the top of the buildings, warm golden light washing over Fig’s face. She grins at Ayda as she answers. “How could I ever come back to Bastion City without visiting my favourite tour guide?” 

Ayda looks just as beautiful bathed in gentle golden sunlight as she does in silver moonlight. “Am I not the only person who’s ever given you a tour?”

“Well — sure.” Fig feels — warm. This whole night, if Fig had to pick one word to describe it, would just be _warm_. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t still be my favourite.” Ayda lets out a laugh, and Fig laughs with her, their voices tangling in a sweet harmony and carrying out into the morning air. 

“Goodnight, Figueroth.”

Fig can’t wipe the smile from her face. “Goodnight, Ayda.”

And — it feels right, maybe. For Fig to reach up, place a gentle hand on Ayda’s cheek — her skin is soft and smooth and warm — and push herself up onto her tiptoes, guiding Ayda’s face down towards her own. For her to close her eyes and press her lips against Ayda’s. So she does. And she smiles to herself when Ayda kisses her back, as in sync as they’ve been for the rest of the night. 

The kiss lasts an instant and it lasts an hour and it feels like the perfect bow tying up this whirlwind of a night. And she can’t help herself, she chases Ayda’s lips to press another, softer, shorter kiss against them, and then it’s just them and the sun and the gentle birdsong that drifts through the early morning air and their hands, interlocked, between them. 

And Fig doesn’t think she’s ever been happier.

(“Garthy?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s this on the counter?” 

“Oh — Figueroth left those with a note while I was finishing up your tattoo, I think. Here — this can probably explain it better than I can.”

_I don’t know if I mentioned it during last night — maybe I was avoiding it — but I’m here, in Bastion City, because I’m part of a band, and my band is on Tour. Fig and the Sig Figs, actually. You might have heard of them. Maybe. We’re still growing. We’ve got a show tonight, at Critical Hit Arena. I technically shouldn’t be giving these out, but my manager was already going to kill me for going drinking the night before a show. Besides, I want you there. Bring Garthy along if they want, but — I want you there. Need you there._

_Figueroth_

“Oh.”  
“Mhm.”  
“.... _Oh_.”

“So, you’re going?”) 

(“Fig, 20 minutes til curtain, I swear to god if you’re not ready— what the fuck is that.”

“What, you don’t like my earring?”

“That’s — you have stylists for a _reason_ , Fig!”

“Yeah, well, they’re wrong sometimes.”

“They’re professionals.”

“I’m the lead singer! Look, it’s an _earring_ , I don’t think it’ll be the end of the world for me to wear it on stage.”

“Is that a _feather_ — y’know what, fine, you can wear it, but don’t come running to me when the tabloids are all talking about your risky fashion choices tomorrow morning.” 

“This feather is more important than you’ll ever know, Lola.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart. You’re the singer, I’m just the manager.”

“And thank you~!”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Fig.”)

(The curtain rises.

Fig catches sight of Ayda in the audience. Front row. She smiles. 

Ayda grins right back.)

**Author's Note:**

> dimension 20 big bang !!!!! this piece was an absolute MONSTER and is the longest thing i've written that hasn't been multiple chapters and also was the first time i've written figayda. maybe not the smartest choice for such a big writing event but!! i'm fairly happy with how it turned out :3 considering i have ... essentially fallen out of the d20 fandom in the time between when i started this piece and now i'm surprised i managed to finish this at all !! i hope u enjoyed !! kudos and comments make my dayyyyyyy


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